It will come as no huge surprise that our country's political climate has edged its way into my classroom. I've written before about the strict ideological views held by my students, and more recently I've been seeing it play out in their use of biased news sources in argumentative writing. After I read the sixth essay on the same topic using the same one-sided sources, I knew it was time to address the issue. Like many issues in my classroom, this was my fault. I had assumed my students (juniors and seniors in an upper-level writing class) knew the importance of using unbiased sources. I told them on the front end, "Don't use biased sources," but then after the fact I began to see that they truly didn't know the difference. (This is clearly being added to my curriculum for semesters to come.) However, I knew lecturing wouldn't help. I needed a way to help them visualize this issue. I did some quick research and came across an activity from this website. I divided students into two groups and gave each group a short fictional news article to read about a fellow named Sir Sam. In their groups they were directed to read the article and then create a list of at least six adjectives to describe Sam. I had each group come to the board and share the list. As you can see, each group's list was quite different, and in some cases their chosen words were exact opposites. (This was an accidental miracle.)
Next I asked one student from each group to give a quick recap of what happened in the article without focusing on the characteristics of Sam. Each group reported the same story: Sir Sam was fired. However, one article painted him in a flattering way, while the other...not so much. We then moved into a discussion of bias in the media. We talked about how using one-sided sources destroys our credibility as writers. I admitted my own weaknesses in this area. I like reading articles that support my worldview; I feel challenged when I don't. But in the end, my viewpoint is strengthened when I consider the whole picture. Finally I introduced students to some websites that will help them determine the bias in the sources they are considering. This lesson wasn't earth-shaking, and it did disrupt my previous plans. However, it was necessary. Now if only our country could take this lesson to heart.
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I came to an important realization this afternoon: I haven't lost my mojo. Maybe I never had it. Mojo is defined as "a magic charm, a talisman, a spell." And if you've been in this business for longer than a day, you know that it involves much more than magic. This isn't Hogwarts. If all we needed was the proper magical spell and the right flick of our wand wrist, I bet the teacher retention rate would be much higher than it currently is. It doesn't take mojo; it takes damn hard work. When I go home at the end of the night, I'm tired to the point of exhaustion. This doesn't mean I don't have magical moments. I do. But they aren't accidental. One of my students in English 2 was struggling to start her personal narrative. We held a brief writing conference during which she confided some painful memories. "Can you write about that?" I asked. She nodded. "You are so brave for telling that story," I encouraged. She smiled shyly, creating a "magical" moment that would never have happened if I didn't create the meaningful learning experience. If I chose to sit at my desk rather than walk among and talk with my students while they wrote, I would never have received that special smile. After several weeks my students are finally starting to get the hang of their Article of the Week reflections. I'm getting more valuable argument and less impassioned ranting. They are crafting careful responses and showing more evidence of active reading in the form of analytical annotations. This didn't happen because of my magnetic mojo, though; it happened because I saw weaknesses in their writing and sought out resources for mini-lessons that zeroed in on key skills. I hear stories from my sister, a second grade teacher in my district. She has a tough group of kiddos this year, kiddos who require extra time and innovative strategies. My sister is a veteran teacher with years of experience, and like me, she's wondered if she has lost her mojo. That is unequivocally not true. Instead of relying on magical charms, she's pushing herself to analyze data and provide the necessary instruction. It's not mojo; it's damn hard work. This fall our staff and students experienced training on growth mindset from Trevor Ragan of Train Ugly. Mojo seems like a fixed mindset belief. Either you have it or you don't. That's not how I view my role in the classroom. That's why every year I'm revamping units and rewriting lesson plans. It's why my writing mini-lessons vary from class to class, student to student. Honestly, that growth mindset is why I was reflecting after a low moment on Friday afternoon. Because I want to do better, because I know that there is always room for improvement. So don't worry. I won't be gone looking for my mojo. Instead I'll be working hard tonight to create a mini-lesson about sentence fragments. (Maybe followed by a glass of wine. Damn hard work sometimes deserves a reward.) When I was 22 and getting ready to graduate from college, I faced the first of many existential crises. I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I was nearing graduation. I had thrown together a religion major with a French minor, but I had no plans to use either. It became a year of escapism. Like Walter Mitty I daydreamed of grand adventures and a lifetime of meaning. I escaped to a world of possibility: I could be a oncology nurse or a civil rights lawyer or a life-changing social worker. But still the clock ticked closer to graduation. I watched my peers who were so much more together than I was. They had life plans and goals; they wore power suits for real-life job interviews. I had an impeccable transcript and a useless major; I wore thrift store t-shirts and a necklace made from a cut-up red handkerchief. Like that senior year at Wartburg, I face a new existential crisis now, the mid-life sort where I question choices and contemplate regrets and what-ifs. I keep a folder in my filing cabinet labeled “Encouragement.” Inside I tuck in notes and reflections from former students. I store thoughtful thank you cards received after graduation and self-assessments that help me remember my WHY. I pulled out that folder this week, and several phrases from my early years as a teacher struck me. Students described me as “fun and exciting,” mentioning my “spontaneous personality.” One girl reflected at the end of the semester, “I love how you love your job” and another wrote, “I always left the classroom happy. You even lift me up and say more nice things than I hear from my parents.” I don’t share those things as a shameless brag. I share those things because they were all written nearly ten years. I’m not sure anyone today would describe me as spontaneous. Sure, I still get the occasional note from a student, but I honestly don’t feel like I’m making the impact I once was. So of course that causes me to reflect. Maybe a bit too much. Is the change because of me? I’m now a working mom. I don’t have the energy or stamina in the classroom that I once had. I no longer stay until 6:00 and volunteer to take on extra responsibilities that help to build relationships with students. I’m also no longer young. When I first started teaching, the age gap between my students and me wasn’t very noticeable, and now just eleven years later, I’m old enough to be their mother. I’ve traded my thrift store t-shirts for diamond studs and sensible flats. (As a matter of fact, just this week I was asked if I was a grandma. Perhaps it’s time to reconsider my stance on plastic surgery.) Is the change because of my students and our society? When I first entered this profession, we had to sign up for times to work in the computer lab, and students were texting on old flip phones. Students still passed real notes, for heaven’s sake. Now I work in a 1:1 district where every student carries a computer in his hands and one in her pockets. Snapchat and YouTube seem much more entertaining than a writing project for English class, and rather than spending spare time reading books, my students are perfecting their bottle flips. I’m not sure what the answer is. Maybe it’s a combination of both changes in me and changes in our culture. Or maybe I’m just tired because we decorated doors for homecoming and I’m procrastinating responding to students’ Article of the Week reflections. I just know that I find myself sitting here at my desk, wondering if I’ve lost my mojo, and perhaps more importantly, if it’s time to go look for it. All it took was an Oreo. Hot, sticky eight-year-old tears flowed down my face, and all I needed was an Oreo cookie. Sometimes the biggest acts of compassion are stuffed into the tiniest of packages. And that’s why I believe in Oreo cookies. I ran in from recess that day with the imprint of the red bouncy ball still tattooed on my face. At least that’s the way it felt to me. An innocent victim trapped in the crossfire of a dodgeball game, my head was still ringing from the impact when I rushed into the door of my 2nd grade classroom. Mrs. Lott, my angelic second grade teacher, was the closest thing to a motherly figure for me at that exact moment. “It looks to me like you could use an Oreo, sweetie,” she stated matter-of-factly as she adjusted the glasses on her narrow nose. “O-o-okay,” I stuttered between sobs. She helped me wipe my tears with a Kleenex from the industrial size box of tissues on her desk. As she went to the cupboard to pull out her magic stash of Oreos, I looked around our classroom. Stacks of books just waiting to be read were lined up next to bottles of Elmers glue, soldiers ready for battle. Mrs. Lott’s lovingly-watered plants sprang to life on the windowsill; everything about the room exuded learning and comfort. Mrs. Lott neatly arranged two Oreos on a paper towel on my desk. My tears had now subsided, and the chocolately goodness was just the comfort food I needed. Mrs. Lott’s hug didn’t hurt either. “Now this is our little secret,” Mrs. Lott whispered as the other students started marching back in from recess. “Oreos are only for special occasions like today.” Her compassion came in words and in the form of a simple cookie. Years later Mrs. Lott’s lesson in compassion still echoed in my heart. I was in my early twenties when I learned that Mrs. Lott was dying of cancer. When I closed my eyes to picture her, I saw her gray halo of hair and that smile that made every student feel like her special pet. She couldn’t be dying of such an ugly disease. I didn’t know if a package of Oreos would be comfort food to Mrs. Lott, so I used the form of compassion that I’ve learned best through the years since that lesson in second grade -- my words. William Wordsworth wrote that we should fill our papers with the breathings of our heart. That’s what I did that day in my letter to Mrs. Lott. I told her just how much her Oreo meant to me, and I promised her that I would always try to be a teacher who showed compassion just as she had taught me. Her husband later told my dad that her feeble fingers wore the edges of that letter as she read and reread it in the days leading up to her death. A simple letter to say thank you for a simple cookie. This week in English 2 we discussed the difference between a rant and an effective argument. This came about because I recently implemented Kelly Gallagher’s Article of the Week assignment with that group, and it quickly came to my attention that they had never been taught the basics of argument. (For those unfamiliar, the premise of this activity is that each week students read a nonfiction article, often about a current topic. They show evidence of active reading and understanding and then write a one-page response.) Last week’s article was about a deported mother living in Tijuana. I received responses that called the mother in the article “stupid,” responses that said “the illegals” were taking jobs that other Americans needed. And here’s the thing. I’ve been doing cartwheels in this circus long enough to realize that not all of my students will share my same worldview. (Duh!) Politically, religiously, socially... we come from different worlds. So while I might not share the same opinions on the current issues as my students, I do have a responsibility to teach them how to share those views effectively. I projected a t-chart highlighting some of the differences between a rant and effective argument. A rant relies on emotion; an argument focuses on claims supported by evidence. A rant is often wild and impassioned; an effective argument is logical and reasonable. Students nodded as I presented this information. Then I got to the last row on the chart. A logic-based argument is more likely to change someone’s mind than a rant. I posed a question. “How many of you have been influenced by a rant?” Several students raised their hands or nodded their heads. “You mean to tell me,” I continued, “that yelling is an effective method for changing your mind?” “Yes,” one boy agreed. “If someone is yelling really loudly and passionately, then I will probably listen.” “But don’t you want facts and evidence?” I pushed. “Nah,” several of them responded. And there you have it. We live in a society no longer persuaded by facts. I pushed the rewind button for my students. Using a graphic organizer, we chose the elementary route and planned out an argument about the superiority of dogs as pets. (Sorry, folks, but I’m a dog person.) We examined counter-arguments and together came up with answers to refute the opposition. At the end of the lesson I asked, “How is that different from a rant?” “Well, I’ve thought about the other side now,” one student answered. And that’s the hard work, isn’t it? That’s what I want for my students. I want them to examine their beliefs and question their biases. I want them to continually ask themselves, “WHY do I believe that?” And I get pushback and side-eyes and heavy sighs. But still. I dig in and do the work because THAT is the kind of world I want to live in. I don’t want to live in the world of social media ranting and either-or thinking. I don’t want my sons to grow up in a world where if you think differently than I do, you’re my enemy. I want dialogue and discussion, and I want democracy. One step at a time. Today at the end of the class we wrote anonymous encouraging notes to members of our learning community. We recently read Shirley Jackson’s “The Possibility of Evil” where the main character writes hate-filled anonymous messages. We chose to rise above that. Students thanked classmates for being “an awesome teammate.” One student told a favorite teacher that she was “the only reason I still like school.” We wrote notes to a lunch lady and the janitor; we thanked the school secretary and counselor. We spread love, not hate. This work is hard, the work of dismantling prejudices and discovering new beliefs and confirming old ones. But it is work that I love, that I am lucky to do. Rant over.
Last week I got my big feelings a tiny bit hurt. While responding to English 2 journals, I came across an entry that stopped me in my tracks. With the brutal honesty of a teenager, a boy (we’ll call him “David”) revealed that last year English was his favorite class, but this year he isn’t really feeling a connection.
I instantly became defensive. What does Mr. Greiner do that I don’t do? I’m trying so hard to connect with all of my students this year. That boy just has a chip on his shoulder. He obviously hates me for no good reason. Ugh. Why do I even try? Overreact much? But this Tuesday I spent some time observing in my colleagues’ classrooms as a trained IPI (Instructional Practices Inventory) data collector for my district. While I was predominantly collecting data about student engagement, I couldn’t help but notice the different teaching styles of my fellow teachers. One of my major take-aways came after visiting Mr. Greiner’s classroom: he was incredibly charismatic and engaging with his students. He cracked jokes, drew them in, and connected from the front of his classroom. He had their rapt attention. Well, no wonder David loved English last year! I’m boring compared to that! My reflections didn’t end there, though. That same afternoon, colleagues came into my classroom for IPI data collection, and I barely knew they were there. My English 2 students were all busy with their independent reading books while I held a quiet reading conference with another student. I sat next to him in the back of the room and asked a few questions about his newest book. We had recently upped his page goal for the week, and so we talked about his different reading rates and why sometimes we readers choose to read books twice. I wasn’t charismatic, and I wasn’t cracking jokes. But I was connecting in a different way. In 1 Corinthians 12 Paul writes of the Church that we are “one body” with “many parts.” In a way, I think the same can be said of a healthy school environment. While it goes without saying that all of the teachers in our district are gifted in teaching, we are gifted in different ways. Some of us command attention and teach through charisma and humor; others come alongside quietly and teach through conversation. Some teach best with well-documented lesson plans; others come up with new ideas at the spur-of-the-moment and teach through trying different techniques each year. Maybe we rely on the textbook or student-led discussions or hands-on labs. Walking through the halls of our school, you will see it all. As Paul writes, “If they were all one part, where would the body be? As it is, there are many parts, but one body.” There are many teachers, but one school. Our students have different learning styles, so our different teaching techniques are desirable, even necessary. Maybe David will connect better with Mr. Greiner’s style, and maybe Monica will connect more in my room. That doesn’t mean I quit trying to engage with David. It just means I can show myself a little more grace if I’m not every student’s favorite teacher. Finally, more proof of our diversity working together can be seen in our school’s annual Homecoming video. Different members of our staff agree to be humiliated in front of the camera (and YouTube!) for the enjoyment of the student body. Some teachers shuffle feet in the background, some don outrageous costumes and flail their limbs unabashedly, and others just laugh at the rest of us from the auditorium. Many teachers, one school. Sometimes we write to scratch an itch, even though we know it will never be satisfied. On this particular Sunday I know I have more questions than answers. I’m reaching the part of the school year where I struggle with balance. When a teacher ed student at the University of Northern Iowa with Mr. J.D. Cryer, I remember clearly a lesson he taught about time management. He talked about prioritizing our commitments of work and family and faith. I sat at my table in his 2nd floor classroom at the Price Lab School nodding in agreement. Yes, it will be all about balance, I thought. And really, I want it to be. I want to be a great wife and mother and teacher. I want to have time for baking fresh blueberry muffins and helping my sons with their homework and going on dates with my husband and responding fully to student writing. That can happen only if I never sleep. Because in the midst of those duties I also need to wash the dishes, put in a load of laundry, enter grades to the online gradebook, and make copies of student reading goals. If I stop too often and think about my to-do list, I might not be able to breathe. (And yes, I sometimes make that mistake.) When I focus on teaching blogs and books, I want to be Teacher of the Year. When I think about my own children and their emotional/social needs, I know I need to put in the time to be Mother of the Year. In the meantime I want to focus on social justice issues and advocate for issues of racial equality and be more involved in my church. And is it too much to ask to have a few minutes with my husband at the end of the day in a clean house? On more than one occasion this past week, I’ve wanted to have Hermione Granger’s Time-Turner. Because there’s just never. enough. time. Each morning I wake before the rest of the house to start the coffee and spend a few minutes with Jesus. I read a some verses, spend a few moments in silence, and read from my devotional. I remember who I am, who I serve, why I do what I do. In those moments I feel like I can conquer the day with dignity and style. I have glimpses of those early-moment moments throughout the day, reminders of my Why: an insightful conversation with a writing student about his personal narrative, a quiet “have a nice day” from an often reticent student, a sweet unprompted hug from my youngest son, the sun playing hide-and-seek through the trees during an afternoon family bike ride. I pause and reflect and say, “Thank you, God.” For a supportive husband and sons who make me laugh, for the reliable changing of seasons and the promise of falling leaves, for the Truth that comes in song and story. That’s where I am tonight as I sit at the kitchen table while my sons watch a movie. The house is still a mess, and the papers still glare at my from my canvas teaching bag. The early-evening sun kisses my toes from the sliding glass door. In awhile I’ll read another chapter of Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix to my precious sons and then I’ll laugh at some meaningless TV show with my husband. Tomorrow I’ll wake and start another week of feeling perpetually behind and breathing deeply and expressing gratitude. I will never find perfect balance; perhaps I should give up my search now. Maybe instead I’ll begin my quest for the best peanut butter pancake recipe or the meaning of life. Or maybe I’ll just remember to pause, to pray and be grateful. To the retired folks at the post office who told my friend Annie that we teachers just put our students in front of the computer and tell them to “get to work”:
I would like to share with you a glimpse into my classroom. Today is a typical Wednesday. Our students have Academic Assistance time at the end of the day which means that our class periods are a bit shorter than on other days. That means I feel extra pressure to get through my plans. In College Comp we started by reading a poem together, “This Is Just To Say” by William Carlos Williams. We also read an imitation poem by Erica-Lynn Gambino and then together broke the poems down, stanza by stanza. Next I gave my students a few minutes to write their own imitation poems in their writer’s notebooks. Because I believe in the power of writing with them, I crafted my own example as well. After a few students shared their poems, I led a mini-lesson on “Shrinking a Century,” a writing concept introduced by Barry Lane in his book After the End. (I read this book outside of the school day during my own precious “free time.”) This writing technique will be important for some of my students to use as we continue in our unit on crafting narratives. It’s just day 11 of the year, and my writing students are getting ready to start their third piece of writing. No rest for the weary, as they say. After our mini-lesson, I modeled some brainstorming with my students. We will be starting a place-based narrative, so I shared with them potential topics and scenes I might explore in my writing. (I created this brainstorm last night at my kitchen table as my own children got ready for bed.) Finally, I set my young writers free to work. Yes, for the last eight minutes of class, my students were in front of their computers. They were composing and revising and rearranging their personal narratives which are due tomorrow. At the end of class I assigned an essay they are to read and annotate for tomorrow so we can discuss how place influenced Zora Neale Hurston’s “How To Be Colored Me.” Oh, and by the way, today’s class period was 41 minutes long. College Comp is one of three classes that I have the privilege to teach each day. My time in English 2 and Speech mirrors my previous description. We read, we write, we discuss, we engage, we think. You might be discovering a theme: my students and I are busy. Every minute. Of every class period. We work hard. We rarely take bathroom breaks. And here’s the thing, retired folks at the post office, we’re not alone. Across our district my colleagues are working tirelessly to craft meaningful learning experiences for your grandchildren. Yes, technology is involved in many of these learning experiences because it’s 2015. If you think technology is going away, I’m afraid you’re disillusioned. We are working to build up the world’s future leaders, and that means our students need to understand the nuances of online communication and the complexities of the digital world. Technology is a tool we use to reach that goal. Second grade teachers, history teachers, guidance counselors, ELL instructors, administrators. We are all working hard because we care. We care about learning, about our students, about the future. And the fact that you stand around at the local post office or coffee shop or church basement gossiping about our laziness and poor work standards, well, it fills me with indignation. Step in my classroom. Watch me work. Observe any of my colleagues meeting the standards of excellence our district has set for us. I think you’ll be surprised by what you see. Sincerely, Mrs. Witt Sometimes reflection is painful. My reflections here will contain some ugly confessions. For the past three years as a working mom, I have never had enough time. I am rushed at home, in my teaching, with my husband. Life feels like a constant race. This first week back to school, however, I am slowly relearning the necessity of slowing down. I am reclaiming time to teach, to read, to write. In College Comp we are taking the time daily to quickwrite about a reading assignment or in-class prompt. We share our writing and take the time to examine writer’s craft. I’m also giving more time for the early stages of the writing process. We are slowing down in this class, experiencing the honey-dripping gold that comes in the early stages of the writing process. This is a task in my teaching I rarely took time for. I felt the pressure that comes with a dual enrollment class. Hurry up, write the essay, get the grade, move forward at an “academic pace” (whatever that is). That type of teaching resulted only in frustration, though, and mostly mine. My students’ early drafts were surface writing; their revisions often forced. Students willing to put in the time outside of class made some progress, but I didn’t see the growth in critical thinking and style I wanted to see. So I crossed some assignments off my list and decided to spend more time in each of my major units. We’re on our second stage of narrative, and we’ve even slowed down in topic selection. Yesterday I announced that we would be moving to a longer narrative. Looking to Penny Kittle (Write Beside Them) for inspiration, I instructed, “Select one moment from your life so far. Tell that story.” We’ve read mentors like George Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant” and Sherman Alexie’s “Indian Education.” Together we’ve talked about stylistic choices and what makes a story worth telling. I’ve modeled my own prewriting and rehearsing for a memoir of my first year of teaching. Using the document camera I showed them my messy planning pages full of arrows and crossed out words and moments when the ideas came so quickly I could barely get them down. I want them to see that a real process is sloppy and non-linear, frustrating and then fulfilling. Last year I would have assigned the narrative, shown the text example, and set them free. Topic selection would have been an overnight assignment that involved no conversation from me. (See, this is the terrible confession time. I knew what was best for my students, but I wasn’t taking the time to do it.) This year, though, I walk around the room today, asking one or two questions of my students in the early stages of their narratives. “How’s it going?” I ask one student who is staring at a blank screen. “I don’t know what to write about,” he answers truthfully. “Look through your quickwrites and see if that helps,” I encourage him. He discovers a pattern: many of his quickwrites involve his friends. “Hmmm,” I question. “How old were you when you moved here? Did you have a moment when you finally realized that you were going to be okay with new friends here?” “Yeah, actually I did. I’ll write about football camp.” And he gets to work. Maybe he’ll stick with this topic or maybe he’ll switch, but the important thing is that I allowed that thinking process to take place. I gave the time for the conversation that led him there. As an English teacher I often feel like my life embodies the cliché, “Time is running out.” But really this week I’ve discovered that another cliché just might fit better. "There’s no time life the present." My writing class will look different this year, substantially so. We might not produce so many final drafts. Maybe we won’t get to the opposing sides essays we’ve written the past two years, but I think that’s okay. There is a beauty here in this process, and I don’t want to move so fast that I miss it. Wait, what? I have a blog? What is this blank space for adding words? How do I add an image again? It's obviously been awhile since I've posted. I can blame lots of things, but mostly I think it's been a simple lack of motivation. Here I am at the end of the year, though, and I wanted to capture some quick snapshot reflections. Maybe the 12 people who read this blog will find something helpful, but mostly I can to chronicle some of my successes from the year as I make plans for moving forward next year, my 10th year of teaching!
As I shared last fall, I focused my Individual Learning Plan on vocabulary strategies this year, and throughout the year I researched and implemented many different teaching strategies. I also delivered ungraded pre- and post-tests in both English 2 and College Composition I. The results showed marked improvements in both sets of students with some students' scores improving from a 31% to 100% by the end of the course! I won't pretend to be a statistical genius, but only three students' scores did not improve, so I'll consider the new focus and strategies successful. You can find a discussion of other strategies used by following this link, but today I will focus on my favorites. Vocabulary Conversations: This was a simple strategy (the Conversation Game) I read about online. Because I wanted students to actually own the words, not just meaninglessly memorize definitions, I tried this technique in College Comp I. The students enjoyed it, and it was delightful to walk around the room and hear them using the words. It's as simple as this: 1. Make student groups of 3-5. 2. Assign each student 2-3 of the vocab words you're focusing on for the particular unit. (I just made note cards that can be reused next year.) 3. Provide a topic of conversation: summer plans, the zombie apocalypse, the U.S. prison system. You get the point. 4. Listen to their conversations. Each student must correctly and within context use his/her assigned words. If they get stuck, their group members can help out. One student said, "I feel like we're a bunch of college professors sitting around talking!" I love hearing them own these mature words that will improve their writing and reading comprehension. Written Assessments: At the beginning of the year I mostly focused on traditional matching assessments, but I started to notice a pattern. Students who excelled at this kind of assessment were getting 100% every time whereas a small student population was struggling with the SAT vocab words in a big way. Additionally, no one really seemed to be owning the words, my real goal. I didn't see transference to their writing, so I switched up my assessment procedure. Students responded to a direct prompt using a specified number of our vocab words within their correct context. Here's a sample assessment. The students who struggled with the traditional assessment saw greater success with the writing, and I began to see the words enter student essays. Win-win! Vocabulary Illustrations: Even high school seniors like to draw some stick figures with markers every once in awhile. For this strategy, I assigned small groups a list of our focused words for the week. I gave them a few minutes to either individually illustrate each word or create a scenario where all words could be used together. Some of them got quite creative with this. We would share with the whole class, providing more word exposure to everyone. Word Map: For this strategy, I modified this graphic organizer. I used this successfully in English 2 and College Composition, and if I had more time, I would use this with every vocabulary unit. It takes some time, but it really got students thinking about these words, their meanings, and their contexts. I modified by also having students choose a color for their word. When we shared out with the whole class, they had to also share WHY they chose their color. This was higher-order thinking and connection-building, and it was valuable as students worked towards comprehension and ownership. This is really a quick snapshot of the vocabulary highlights in my room. I will be revisiting these strategies next year. While vocabulary won't be the focus of my ILP, I am grateful that I work in a district that provides teachers with the time and resources needed to pursue meaningful professional development. The work I completed this year will benefit my students in coming years as well. |
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September 2020
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